


concealer

by taiyaki (ballonlea)



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, moderate edits have been made - pls see author's note, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25299151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballonlea/pseuds/taiyaki
Summary: When class ended, when Azami thought he was supposed to be fine, he stood up and immediately crumpled to the floor.
Relationships: Furuichi Sakyou & Izumida Azami, Hyoudou Kumon & Izumida Azami, Izumida Azami & Rurikawa Yuki
Kudos: 69





	concealer

**Author's Note:**

> please see the ending author's note for specific content warnings!!
> 
> edit 7/17/2020: hi everynyan, i decided to take this off anon. in doing so, i went ahead and made a few edits while i was here. nothing too major!! just tweaked a few things and added a tiny bit, but the plot has stayed the same.
> 
> thank you to everyone who has already read and left kudos on this fic!

Azami had never felt so horrible in his life.

All he was doing was sitting at his school desk, but his heart pounded like he’d just finished a soccer game. His hands froze, but he felt like all of his concealer was melting off. He’d eaten something that morning (or half of something), but his stomach was trying to eat itself alive. Nothing made sense. He wanted to go home already.

Briefly, he wondered what Kumon was doing. If Kumon knew something was wrong. If Kumon had ever been sat there at his desk with cold hands and a pounding heart and an empty stomach. He was just a floor above him. If Azami could trust his legs to carry him up the stairs, he might have gone and asked.

Wasn’t he supposed to be happy, doing this? Wasn’t it supposed to make him feel better? His mind was both hyper-focused and hazy at once. It was like he could feel each part of his body stuttering to life every time he tried to move, but thinking about anything but sitting up straight was impossible. It was easy to wrap his fingers around his wrist and wonder if they could reach any farther, but extracting meaning from the haiku on the board proved to be a task Azami couldn’t complete.

And just when class ended, when he thought he was supposed to be fine, he stood up and immediately crumpled to the floor.

The only person who’d helped him up was the class president. She didn’t look too happy about it, but she took him down to the nurse’s office. Azami’s head was spinning too much to hear anything either of them said, but when the nurse asked for his parent’s phone number, he gave them Ken’s.

“Ehh?! How’d ya pass out?” Ken asked in the car. He drove in a way that made Azami’s head spin. 

“I don’t think I drank enough water,” Azami lied. Lying to Ken felt like Azami may as well have stabbed him. “I’ll be fine, I think. Just don’t say anything to either of those old bastards.”

“I hate keepin’ secrets when it’s about yer wellbeing,” Ken said. “But fine. If it happens again, though—”

“It won’t,” Azami said.

It took Azami fifteen minutes to stand up after he’d finished puking. It’d taken him another five to clean up any excess mess and build up the strength to walk out the door like nothing had happened.

“You’re not quiet,” Yuki snapped before Azami had even closed the door behind him.

Azami just stared at him.

“You gotta watch out with that stuff.” Yuki crossed his arms. “Either quit it or hide it better. I won’t tattle, but someone else will.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Listen. It’s best to do it in the middle of the day here. Hardly anyone’s home. Don’t excuse yourself, and don’t make a big deal.” Yuki looked away. “You’ll be better off without the puking though. It’s worse for your teeth to puke.”

It felt weird to be told something like this. There wasn’t anyone else around, and not even the noise of the air conditioning could muffle their conversation. Yuki spoke like he was telling Azami how to cheat on a test. He lacked his usual venom.

Yuki met his eyes again. “But if you lose too much, you’ll be making trouble for  _ me,  _ okay? So quit it if your clothes get too loose.”

“Got it,” Azami said. He hated to be on the receiving end of any lecture, but this one wasn’t as bad.

“And I’m here,” Yuki said, “if you want to talk to someone. I don’t make that offer to just anyone.”

He turned around on his heel and disappeared into the other room before Azami could say anything else.

Sakyo was too busy these days.

He’d make time if Azami asked for it, but he was usually doing yakuza work, or delegating that work to someone else, or calculating the theatre’s expenses, or going over the budget, or making sure the thermostat wasn’t put on outside of the acceptable hours or temperature ranges. His evenings were spent in rehearsals. Sometimes he’d go out drinking with Azuma or Itaru or any combination of the other adults.

It was a blessing, almost. It was easier for Azami to get away with everything without that old geezer breathing down his neck. Sakyo was too busy crunching numbers to look at what Azami was eating or drinking or not eating or not drinking. Azami wasn’t sure if anyone paid attention to him. He felt Yuki’s eyes on him occasionally, and he met them just as occasionally. It was never anything more than a look.

He’d read tips online and got smarter about everything. He ate when everyone was around. There was no need to do it alone. He only ate a quarter of each plate and either gave away other pieces to Taichi or Banri or he stuck pieces of it in his pocket to get rid of later. As a budding actor, it did him some good to learn how to fake the whole eating thing too.

He went to sleep each night wondering if he’d be able to keep the rest of his hair from falling out, waiting for Sakyo to fall asleep first before he could cry, wishing someone would notice that something was wrong with him.

“Azami-kun, aren’t you going to overheat wearing something like that?”

The color of the sweatshirt matched the color of Muku’s eyes. Azami crossed his arms and avoided those eyes.

“Not that heavy.”

“But it’s so hot out today!”

“It’s fine. It’s fashion.”

“But what if—”

“Muku, cut it out,” Yuki said. “If he dies, that’s his problem.”

Yuki’s words felt like a threat, but they shut Muku up quickly.

Azami didn’t even realize he had fainted until he was waking up.

Kumon was crouched next to him, fanning him with a pamphlet. It was just the two of them today; Shifuto had to leave early for practice. Azami was almost glad that Shifuto hadn’t been there. The less witnesses, the better.

“A-Are you okay? Should we go to the hospital?” Kumon asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Azami said. “Just gimme a second.”

The grass was a nice place to faint, all things considered. They were planning on kicking a ball around or something—Azami didn’t really listen to the plan before accepting it. Kumon sat down fully on the grass, continuing to fan at a bit of a slower pace. 

“I’ve got some water if you want it,” Kumon said. He was already reaching into his bag. “Or I can go buy a sports drink! We don’t have to play today.”

“Sorry.” Azami struggled to sit up, and the field lurched in every single direction as he did so. “Water’s fine.”

Kumon’s hand was on Azami’s back to steady him. The water was warm and half-drank. Azami didn’t have the mental energy to consider the scandalous ramifications of an indirect kiss, and the water down his throat did next to nothing to help him.

He felt like he was decaying. Like he really was a thistle, left in a vase with no admirers, destined to rot without ever really being seen.

He vomited half the water up into the grass. Acid burned his throat.

Azami was sentenced to bedrest for the next few days.

Omi made him some sort of broth to help, and it was brought to him every once in a while by various members of the company. Some would stay to chat, others would hand it to him and make sure he was alright before leaving. Sakyo took his temperature in the morning before he left for work and at night before he went to bed. His eyebrows were always drawn up in worry whenever the fever wasn’t going down, and on the third day, he came home from work early to place a cool towel on Azami’s forehead.

“I know you don’t want me to,” Sakyo said, “but I’ll be keeping an eye on you today.”

Azami could barely roll his eyes.  _ Of course I want you to, _ he wanted to say. 

He couldn’t really do much of anything. Drinking the broth sapped most of his energy each day. He let his eyes flutter closed again, and his fever was breaking the next time he opened them, in the middle of the night. Azami had enough strength to sit up and peer over the edge of his bed—Sakyo had fallen asleep at the low table in the center of the room.

Somehow, it was the clearest Azami’s head had felt in months.

Falling ill didn’t do much to stop him. Azami was back to his typical habits within the week. He was thinking about it a lot more now than he used to, though. Even if he still wasn’t eating enough, he ate a bit more than he was eating before. Being so sick and so miserable was enough to scare him into upping his intake  _ just  _ so.

Lately, Summer Troupe had started their dress rehearsals for the next show. They were competent enough to do most of their own make-up, so all Azami really had to do was standby. He helped Misumi put blush on his face, and he usually had to fix Kumon’s eyeliner, but other than that, it was a low-stress job. During the actual show, he could sink into one of the dressing room chairs and wait for the room to stop spinning.

On the first night of rehearsals, Yuki had entered the dressing room about twenty minutes into the show. He sat on the counter, crossing his legs and inspecting his false lashes in a compact mirror.

“Why are you here?” Azami asked. “Feels like you’re here to give me another shitty lecture.”

“I don’t go on again until the last act,” Yuki said. “But your measurements are a lot smaller. You’re getting skeletal. It’s gross.”

“Whatever.” 

Despite his nonchalance, Azami glanced at himself in the large mirror. He looked pale, and his everyday make-up didn’t do enough to cover up the dark circles under his eyes. His cheekbones were a little sharper too. The shirt he was wearing was oversized enough to conceal his torso, but his bare forearms looked… Well, Azami thought they hadn’t changed much. No one else seemed to think so either.

“You’re an idiot,” Yuki said, “if you think you can live your life like this. Your heart’s gonna give out on you at any second. Or you’ll fall asleep and not wake up. Your hair’s gonna fall out.”

“My hair already falls out,” Azami grumbled. “I’ve got a lot of it. It’ll be fine, so shut up already!”

Yuki snapped the compact mirror closed. “Shut up? I’m not gonna shut up. I don’t want you to ruin your entire life! Do you think this kinda thing leaves you? Do you? Do you think you’re gonna find what you’re looking for and it’s all magically gonna go away? You’re an  _ idiot!” _

Azami stood up way too quickly. He almost fell forward, but Yuki was quick to push him back into the chair.

“You better listen to me.” Yuki’s voice was lower now, and it was the only thing Azami could focus on. “I’m looking out for you because I  _ care. _ If I was too young to deal with it, then you are too. Like I said, I’m not gonna tattle. But you have to do what you can to help yourself.”

The dressing room fell into silence. Azami slowly regained his sense, and Yuki made himself busy with inspecting the costumes for the next act.

His heart was still pounding. His hands were still cold. His stomach still twisted.

He ran into Yuki outside of the bathroom again one evening.

Their eyes met, and it felt like they shared some kind of secret.

On Azami’s birthday, Ken took him home for a little while.

Azami hated dealing with his father when Sakyo wasn’t around, but Ken’s presence made it a little better. Ken was good enough at unintentionally derailing conversations that he didn’t have to answer too many questions about how school was going or how he was liking it in the dorm or what his latest “make-up thing” had looked like. Azami felt like his brain was rotting. Like he couldn’t answer questions like that even if he’d thought of responses beforehand.

The cake boasted a high price tag. If he’d been home, Azami would have given his slice to Juza. The idea of eating it was nauseating enough that Azami ended up just pushing bits and pieces of it around his plate. When his father wasn’t looking, he smeared a bit of the disgusting-smelling sugary frosting on the corner of his mouth.

He preferred bitter things, anyway.

“Are you sure you don’t want another piece?” his father asked him. “You’re a growing boy.”

“Sugar’s bad for your skin,” Azami said.

“I see,” his father said, but it looked like he didn’t get it at all.

“Azami? You’re shaking so badly!”

“B-Back off, Kumon.”

“You seeeeriously don’t look good, Azamin. Are you—”

“I’m fine!”

“So pale…”

“I-It’s the m-m—”

“Azami-kun?!”

On the closing night of Summer Troupe’s show, Azami was lying in a hospital bed.

He’d fainted in the dressing room, and he had woken up in time to hear the end of Izumi’s conversation on the phone. A call to Sakyo, surely. And Sakyo had made the executive decision to take him to the hospital.

They’d weighed him and taken his blood pressure and decided he needed an IV. The hospital was eerily quiet so late at night, and Sakyo and Izumi sat in the room with him, waiting for whatever was going to come next. She held Sakyo’s hand so carefully, and if Azami had had the energy, he would have told them off for making such a lewd display.

“You can’t scare me like that,” Sakyo said.

Azami couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even look at Sakyo. He’d wanted Sakyo to look at him so badly, and now that he had that, he felt  _ guilty.  _ He felt like he deserved to starve to death. Like he should rip out the IV and go back to his normal life.

His phone sat in his lap. It wouldn’t stop lighting up. The Mankai group chat was the most active he’d ever seen it, and everyone was messaging him individually too, and even Ken had caught wind of it and wouldn’t stop sending the worried face emoji. 

Azami wanted to throw it across the room.

He’d received a psychiatric assessment a little later into the night, and the doctor spent a long time in another room with Sakyo, discussing things like  _ next steps  _ or  _ emotional growth  _ or other stupid things he was sure Sakyo wouldn’t be able to get through his stupid head _.  _ It took way too much time, and Azami got home in the early hours of the morning.

A few members of the company were waiting for them. Banri started to say something along the lines of  _ you look like— _

But Yuki elbowed him in the gut before he could reach the end of it. Tsuzuru looked like he was in the midst of worrying himself sick. Kumon had fallen asleep next to him, red-cheeked and still wearing half of his costume from the show.

Azami was too exhausted to want to talk to anyone. Izumi accompanied Azami back to his room, and he slept until late morning.

“Hospitals suck,” Yuki said, on a cold afternoon.

They sat outside the theater together. Yuki had brought tea with him, in a cat mug that was too cute to suit Azami’s appearance. It warmed his hands.

“Hospitals suck,” Azami agreed.

“At least they didn’t keep you.”

“Did they—”

“Off limits.”

“Sorry.”

Yuki took a long sip of his tea. “So what’s the plan now? For you.”

“I have to meet with a specialist on Tuesday.”

“Are you gonna listen to them?”

Azami stared into his mug. He thought about his promise to Ken. About Sakyo’s face in the hospital room. About Kumon, who stayed with him that day in the field until he felt well enough to stand.

“Probably,” he said.

“Good.”

“It’d be annoying if that shithead lectured me for not listening, anyway.”

Yuki snorted. “That’s it?”

“It’s also annoying to hear  _ you  _ lecture me about my measurements.”

_ “That’s  _ it?”

“...I kinda wanna get better too.”

“Now that’s a good answer.”

The chill that had settled itself into Azami’s bones ebbed away the longer Sakyo hugged him.

The last time they hugged was when Azami was about half this age and had cried over one of his trading cards blowing away in the autumn breeze. Azami hadn’t hit his growth spurt, and he wasn’t tall enough to reach where it had gotten snagged in the branch. And he was comforted then just like he was comforted now.

Sakyo held him like he was going to break. It reminded him of the way his mother used to hug him.

“I’m sorry,” Sakyo said. “I should have…”

It was hard to shrug in a hug, and it was even harder to pretend like he wasn’t going to cry. He tried to do both anyway. “It’s whatever. I told Ken-san to keep his mouth shut. And your eyesight’s on the way out anyway so—”

“Oi, don’t be a brat right now.”

Sakyo ruffled his hair when he let him go and said something like  _ you better do your homework, you damn brat.  _ He had his own things to do that night—which Azami took as being something perverted, like kissing Izumi goodnight premaritally or something else equally as obscene. But his eyes were a little red, and he promised to be back before it got too late.

Azami didn’t feel transparent anymore, and that night, he fell asleep without wondering if he’d wake up the next morning.

A diagnosis. Meal plans. Therapy appointments.

Too many things that made Azami’s head hurt.

Meals still hard, some days. Even if he wanted to, it was a struggle to chew and swallow so… much. He’d messed up his appetite somewhere along the line, too, and it was hard to tell when he was hungry and when he wasn’t. And sometimes it was so hard that he wanted to cry, and sometimes he  _ did  _ cry, and sometimes he ran away to the bathroom again to get rid of it like he used to.

The good part was that his head had the capacity to hurt. He could think a lot better and move a lot better and perform a lot better. Sakyo fussed over him whenever they ended up at the table together. Kumon did some fussing too, but not nearly as much.

The  _ best _ part was that none of it felt like nearly as much of a burden as he thought it would. The last thing he wanted to do was make everyone go out of their ways for him, but not much changed. The first few weeks, Omi had offered  _ every single day _ to make something else if the original dinner plan wasn’t working for Azami. Azami had never taken him up on that, but it was nice that the offer was there.

It was nice to feel cared for. It was nice to feel loved.

Yuki had been right about “that sort of thing” never truly leaving.

There were times where it had only gotten slightly bad, and then times where he got into a shouting match with Kumon about whether or not he was eating enough. Times where even Yuki had given up trying to help and instead told him way too much about  _ harm reduction techniques  _ or  _ the benefits of a support system.  _ Times where he fainted and fell so badly he’d ended up with a concussion.

The only thing that scared him straight was Yuki’s description of the hospital’s way of treatment. Azami had never seen Yuki cry so much.

Eventually, though, Azami felt like he’d gotten pretty close to getting rid of it. He started to fill out his clothes again, and going out to eat with Shifuto and Kumon after school didn’t feel like a death sentence, and his hair stopped falling out. The same thoughts tugged at him every once in a while, but they got easier to ignore with each day that passed.

Sakyo had clapped him on the shoulder one day, saying something shitty and sappy like  _ I’m proud of you. _

And Azami had never felt better.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> if you've read this to trigger yourself (which i get bc i've been there), pls make sure to do what you need to to take care of yourself!! reach out to someone if you need to!!
> 
> also, please don't worry about me. i'm fine! writing vent fic helps me feel better so this isn't like. a cry for help or anything.
> 
> CW: EDNOS, purging, vomiting, hospitalization
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/mezzosaka)


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